


Hell Will Melt Like Snow.

by ununpentium



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frankenstein - Freeform, Gen, M/M, dont let the tags fool you, this is not RPF, tinker tailor soldier spy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ununpentium/pseuds/ununpentium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after Sherlock's death, John walks past the National Theatre and sees the posters for Frankenstein. He stops in his tracks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Frankenstein

**Author's Note:**

> This is not RPF. All characters in this story, even if they carry the name of a real person, operate within the Sherlock universe and are not 'themselves'. Events in this story are purely fictional.
> 
> Thanks to Grassle for looking this over, ensuring it makes sense and feeding me porn.

 

Almost a year to the day since Sherlock’s death, John’s walking slowly along the southbank. It’s cold and raining and John trudges forward with his head down. The world is not _right_ without Sherlock and it’s almost too much to bear. John feels unbalanced, disorientated; Ella keeps telling him that the rawness will fade, that in time it will be easier to manage. John can’t imagine how Sherlock not being part of his life will ever be easy to manage.

John doesn’t take much notice of his surroundings until he passes the National Theatre. The brightly coloured flags bearing the logo catch his attention. He stops for a second, staring upwards. He never came here with Sherlock which was a good thing really; he could never have imagined Sherlock sitting still for two and a half hours to watch a play. Even if he did sit still he’d keep muttering and pointing out everything that was wrong.

John is just about to continue walking when a poster for the current production of Frankenstein catches his eye. John’s breath catches in his throat and he is frozen to the spot. He blinks fervently.

_That’s… that’s… Sherlock? No. Don’t be stupid._

John forces himself to move, all but runs over to where the poster is displayed next to the main doors. He ghosts a hand over the actor’s face. The actor bears a striking resemblance to Sherlock, yet he has a fuller face and slightly shorter coppery hair. But his eyes are the same; slightly slanted haunting grey green eyes. John would recognise Sherlock’s eyes anywhere.

Trembling all over John reads the rest of the poster to find out the actor’s name. Benedict Cumberbatch. John barks out a laugh. Only Sherlock Holmes would fake his own death and choose a new name more ridiculous than his own one.

John scrambles for his phone and hastily punches in Lestrade’s number.

“Hey, John. What can I do for you?”

John barely lets Lestrade finish speaking before he jumps in, the words tumbling over each other.

“It’s Sherlock. He’s alive! He’s in a play at the National, God knows why, he’s got a new name now. Benedict Cumberbatch. Look him up, Lestrade. He’s fucking alive!”

There is a long pause.

“John… Mate, you saw the post mortem report. Molly verified everything herself. Sorry, but I reckon this actor just looks like him, yeah? And it spooked you.”

John balls his fist and slams it into his leg.

“Damn it, Lestrade, it’s him. Google him, get a picture up on your computer. His eyes…” John lets out a shuddering breath, willing Lestrade to _see_.

“Oh, John. Sherlock is dead. It’s been a whole year, it’s understandable you’re willing it not to be true, but this guy is an actor who has a resemblance to Sherlock. I can even look him up on the police database, not that I’m supposed to, and see for myself that his details are legit.”

“No, Lestrade. You’re wrong. It’s him. It’s fucking _him._ ” John spits out the last three words and hangs up, trembling.

He takes one final look at the poster, closes his eyes briefly, then turns around and marches back to Baker Street.

~*~*~

John flips open his laptop and types _Benedict Cumberbatch Frankenstein_ into Google.

 

John watches the trailer five times in a row, his heart hammering in his chest. He clicks on a few links; they all say the same thing. Benedict Cumberbatch is an unknown actor, cast into the joint lead opposite Jonny Lee Miller. The press were speculating about Cumberbatch, wondering where he’d sprung from and if he would be good enough to hold his own on stage. However, reports from the press night had been stellar. Cumberbatch was _fantastic_.

John clicks onto the ticketing area of the National Theatre website intent on buying  a ticket. He has to see for his own eyes if it really was Sherlock. John has spent enough time patching Sherlock up that he’d recognise the upper half of his body anywhere.

John growls in frustration as the website tells him that tickets are sold out for the rest of the run. Fucking damn it to hell. As the adrenaline begins to wear off, John realises how he sounds. Hysterical and making up wild theories. Lestrade was right; he’s seen the autopsy report. He’s heard everything from Molly. He saw Sherlock fall with his _own eyes_.

Sherlock is dead.

John closes his laptop, climbs the stairs and gets into bed, fully clothed.

~*~*~

The niggling feeling isn’t leaving John alone. As he walks to the surgery for his early shift his mind keeps wandering back to Frankenstein. If only he can get a ticket he can see for himself that this Benedict person isn’t Sherlock and then he can just get on with his life. Maybe make an appointment with Ella again.

John’s shift passes by in a whirlwind of coughs, colds and upset stomachs. As the clock finally ticks around to 1pm he hastily tidies up the consulting room, gathers his things, and leaves. He hails a cab and tells the driver to go to the National.

John read on their website that sometimes return tickets become available for a particular show, but that you have to turn up and see on the day. John is hoping he isn’t too late to get a ticket for the 7pm performance.

John leaps out of the cab and makes his way to the ticketing office. He sees that a queue has already formed and his heart sinks. He joins the back of the queue and settles himself in for a long wait, wishing he had thought to bring a book to read.

Four hours later he finally reaches the front of the queue and to his amazement he is able to secure a ticket. It’s not a particularly great seat, but at least he’ll be able to see the performance. He wanders over to the foyer where the programmes are being sold and he buys one, flicking through it hastily to read the actor biography for Benedict Cumberbatch.

 

_Benedict Cumberbatch studied drama at Manchester University, then trained for one year at LAMDA. His work in theatre includes After the Dance at the National; The City, The Arsonists and Rhinoceros at the Royal Court._

Was that it? John turns the page. Jonny Lee Miller’s bio fills the entire page, and yet Benedict’s is a mere few lines. The papers got it right when they said Benedict was practically an unknown quantity.

John stares at the photograph. He can still see the resemblance between Benedict and Sherlock, but at the same time he _knows_ that Sherlock died a year ago. He shuts the programme and heads for the bar in search for a drink. Scanning the cocktail list he opts for The Experiment and is served a green, smoking drink from a grinning bartender.

“Hardly anyone goes for that one! I think they’re wary about drinking something called The Experiment! I love making it.”

John smiles and takes a deep sip of his drink. Butterflies have exploded into his stomach and he needs to calm his nerves. The clock ticks closer to 7pm and John is getting increasingly nervous.

_It’s just a play. It’s just a play._

John downs the rest of his drink and sits on his trembling hands.

He suddenly decides that he can’t bear to know if it’s really Sherlock or not. He’d rather carry on with this nice little delusion that Sherlock’s alive and swanning about as an actor than to believe that he’s dead.

John stands up and calmly walks out of the theatre and doesn’t look back.


	2. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

Six months have passed since John walked out of the theatre. He’s seen Lestrade a few times since the phone call, in the pub and the odd time where Lestrade has called John in on a case. John doesn’t like helping out on cases; it doesn’t feel right without Sherlock, and so he tries to do as few as he feels he can get away with without his conscience nagging him.

Lestrade has never mentioned the phone call to John. They don’t talk about Sherlock or how they are coping. It’s too painful, and they’re blokes. They don’t talk about their feelings.

Only this morning is different. John walks into Lestrade’s office and straight away notices the DVD lying partially hidden by paperwork. _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy_. John pushes some of the paperwork out of the way and picks up the DVD. The image is of Benedict Cumberbatch wearing a serious expression on his face. His eyes are breathtaking; a vivid blue, and John drops the DVD where it falls with a thud to the desk. It’s Sherlock with straightened, blonde hair. There’s no two ways about it.

 

Lestrade chooses this moment to enter his office, and sees John staring at the DVD with an unreadable expression on his face.

“John? You alright?”

John takes deep, measured breaths.

“Greg, you can’t deny that that’s Sherlock.”

Lestrade sits down heavily in his chair and sighs.

“I thought we’d moved past this. Look, I know they look similar, but that’s not Sherlock.”

John purses his lips and stares up and the ceiling.

“Look at his expression. That’s the most Sherlockian expression I’ve ever seen. Look at his _eyes_. His fucking cheekbones. Bloody hell, Greg.”

John’s leg starts to throb and he kneads his thigh.

“Listen, mate, I checked him out. Everything seems legit; he’s got a national insurance number and his car is licenced to him and if you take a look online you’ll see he’s been in a few other stage shows.”

“Yes, but isn’t it a bit of a coincidence that he appeared in his first show after Sherlock died? That no-one had ever heard of him before that?”

Lestrade is looking at John in a way that makes John want to scream. He can see pity in his eyes.

“He did a drama degree at Manchester. It checks out- I found his transcript. I’m sorry.”

John growls with frustration.

“And you don’t think that Sherlock would be able to fake that? His brother practically runs the country; Mycroft’d be able to fake all those details in an instant!”

Lestrade crosses his arms and John knows the discussion is over.

“John, do you think perhaps you should make an appointment with that therapist of yours?”

John glares at Lestrade for a moment before turning on his heel and walking out of Scotland Yard.

~*~*~

Safely locked inside 221b, John powers up his computer and searches for footage of Benedict. He stumbles across a video taken at the premiere of the spy film and he watches it five times in a row.

A tear escapes John’s eye, rolls down his cheek and drips from his chin. John knows that it’s Sherlock; he knows it with every fibre of his being. He’s happy that Sherlock’s alive, but it is eclipsed by his anger that Sherlock’s done this to him. Sherlock’s gone and left him behind, doesn’t care that John can’t sleep because every time he closes his eyes he sees Sherlock fall from the roof all over again. John shakes with anger, clenching and unclenching his fists. They had the beginning of something, the two of them. Sherlock’s gone and fucking thrown it away, and for what? Being an actor?

John closes his laptop. He can’t bear to see any more of Sherlock’s new, glittering life. His new life without John. He wipes his eyes angrily with the cuff of his worn jumper and settles on the sofa, flicking on the television. It’s early evening and there isn’t much on so John finds himself channel hopping. He stops on BBC2 and lets out a sob, his chest heaving and his eyes blurry with tears.

 _This isn’t fucking funny_ , he thinks. _I can’t do this_. John turns the TV off, unplugs it from the wall and shoves it inside one of the kitchen cupboards.

 _Ha. No more surprises_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gif used with kind permission from deareje.tumblr.com
> 
> If you have any things you'd like me to try to include then leave me a comment!
> 
> My continued thanks to Grassle who most definitely does _not_ feed me porn.


	3. A pin up who's hard to pin down

**Andrew Scott: A pin-up who is hard to pin down**

_It's good to keep reinventing yourself, he tells Alice Jones_

Unpredictable is a good word for Scott. He sprang up seemingly out of nowhere last year in the adaptation of Ibsen’s epic three hour and nine minute long _Emperor and Galilean_ at the National Theatre. You may even have caught him in _The Hour_ , BBC2s sharp new 1950s drama.

Scott studied drama at Trinity College, Dublin, though he is cagey about the details. “I dropped out. It wasn’t working for me; I wanted to get into work,” he says before going tight lipped on the matter. He won’t even say when he studied there; instead he changes the topic, waving his hands around as he talks about his upcoming project _Sea Wall_.

“It’s a short film by Simon Stephens, written for me to perform, and it was fantastic to do. I’m incredibly proud of it.”

 

Intense and highly strung on stage, off it he's witty and laid-back. "I don't think I'm intense in life. This must be where it comes out. I don't really like anything to be too serious. Then you lose the humanity of it."

 

 

_  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Headline and photo taken from http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/tv/features/andrew-scott-a-pinup-who-is-hard-to-pin-down-6288320.html article mainly written by me with a few lines from the Independent’s article. Image from the trailer for Sea Wall available here http://www.seawallandrewscott.com/ ]


	4. Stuart: A Life Backwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to grassle for being wonderful!
> 
> And yes, there is some timey wimey stuff going on here. I know Stuart was made in 2008, but for the purposes of this fic it was made shortly after Sherlock died in 2011.

John climbs the seventeen steps to 221b sighing with exhaustion, wanting to do nothing except take a ridiculously hot shower and climb into bed. He unlocks the door, flips on the light, and chucks his Oyster card down next to his computer along with some loose change he’s had rattling about in his pocket all day. The DVD lying there catches his attention.

John picks it up tentatively. Someone has been in his flat and left it there! John tenses and looks around; nothing has obviously been stolen. John takes a closer look at the DVD- _Stuart: A Life Backwards_ he reads, _starring Tom Hardy and Benedict Cumberbatch_. John lets out a weak giggle; he can’t escape this man. Even shutting the TV in the kitchen cupboard didn’t do any good now the DVD fairy has paid him a visit.

“Sherlock you bastard. I know you left this here!” John says to the empty room, peering about for any other signs of a disturbance. He glances half-heartedly into the corners of the room for hidden cameras but doesn’t see anything.

John decides his shower can wait. The adrenaline that has started coursing through his veins has woken him up a bit, and truth be told he’s desperate to watch the film now Sherlock’s left it for him. John puts the disc into his computer, not wanting to waste time fetching the TV from its hiding place.

Not even a minute in and ‘Benedict’ is crying. John closes his eyes. All he can see is Sherlock standing on the roof.

~*~*~

Halfway through and John pauses the film.

He’s imagined Sherlock like this so many times. Sherlock, out of his suits and into something comfortable, relaxing out in the countryside, away from London. John’s imagined the two of them together, cooking dinner and having long discussions. He wonders if this is Sherlock’s way of saying he knows, and he wants all of that, too.

The doorbell rings once and John swears under his breath. It’s Lestrade. John hastily ejects the disc and places it back into the case before hiding it in the desk drawer.

“Hey, John, Mrs Hudson let me in,” Lestrade sticks his head around the door, and John schools his features into what he hopes passes for a smile.

“Greg, what can I do for you?”

Lestrade enters the flat, not hiding the fact that he’s looking around, checking that everything is in order. John feels angry; he doesn’t want to be checked up on like a _child_.

“I’ve got some cold cases; thought you might want to look them over, maybe check out some of the medical details?” Lestrade drops a pile of case files onto the table with a thud.

“I know what you’re doing, Greg.” John balls his hands into fists, “You’re treating me like you treated Sherlock. You’ve found an excuse to visit so you can see how I’m holding up!”

Lestrade shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable.

“We haven’t seen you around much recently. I was a bit worried, after, y’know.”

“After what, Greg? After you thought I was having some sort of mental breakdown, seeing Sherlock everywhere? Just go and take your stupid case files with you.”

John turns his back on Lestrade and does not move until he hears Lestrade make his way back down the stairs and out of the front door. John sits on the sofa and puts his head in his hands. His mind wanders back to the film, with Sherlock sitting in the garden surrounded by his friends. Christ, he’s calling him _Sherlock_ now. He knows he needs to be cautious, this actor, Benedict, might just be someone who happens to look exactly like Sherlock. It might be a huge coincidence, but John cannot stop himself from hoping. He closes his eyes and imagines himself with Sherlock, sitting on the deck, sharing a bottle of wine. The sun is beating down on them and Sherlock looks happy and carefree, his shirt mostly unbuttoned and his shoes toed off. John catches Sherlock’s eye and they smile lazily at each other; John leans in towards Sherlock and lightly caresses the back of his head, fingers teasing the curls at the nape of his neck. Sherlock’s smile widens; the corners of his eyes crinkle, and he leans in towards John and kisses him gently on the lips.

John’s eyes fly open, he is breathing hard. Where is that image coming from? Before Sherlock died they’d never discussed their feelings for each other. John wasn’t even sure if Sherlock had ever been romantically attracted to _anyone_ ; so where is this sudden fantasy of kissing Sherlock coming from?

John groans and forces himself to his feet. He still hasn’t made it to the shower, and it’s getting late. He makes the decision to go straight to bed, but stops when he realises he’s standing outside Sherlock’s bedroom, not his own. John pushes the door open tentatively. There’s no-one inside. _Why would there be?_ John’s brain supplies, _Sherlock’s dead_. John carefully takes off his clothes and climbs into Sherlock’s bed, pressing his face into the pillows. Very faintly he can still smell the shampoo Sherlock used, and it’s comforting. John settles down under the duvet and tells himself this can absolutely not happen again. He must get around to clearing Sherlock’s room out; only as he falls asleep his last thoughts are about buying Sherlock a new set of duvet covers.

 

 


	5. Wreckers

John is clock watching. After seeing his fifth patient of the day who was demanding antibiotics for a cold, he is rapidly losing patience. He watches as the seconds tick by and the hour hand inches closer to 2pm.

With ten minutes to go until the end of his shift, John sticks his head out of his consulting room. There seems to be a lull in patients for the time being, and Sarah beckons him over.

“John, you’re free to go. Your last patient cancelled at the last minute, and Dr Finch just turned up to start the shift after yours.”

John smiles, running his fingers through his hair.

“Brilliant. That shift dragged, I have to say. Too many patients wanting antibiotics. Maybe we need to put out more of those leaflets that explain what antibiotics can and can’t help with?”

Sarah puts down her clipboard, roots around in the receptionist’s desk for a stack of leaflets, and waves them triumphantly in front of John.

“You mean these leaflets? The ones I ordered only two days ago? Already ahead of you, John!”

John laughs and shakes his head, turning to make his way back to his room to gather up his things, when he feels Sarah’s hand on his arm. He moves back to face her, a questioning look on his face.

“I just wanted to say that you’re looking much happier. I’m pleased. I know we’re not as close as we used to be, but I am relieved to see you moving on.”

A flicker of a frown crosses John’s face. He shakes his head minutely to clear it, and smiles at Sarah.

“Thanks. Yeah. I feel good. I’ll, um, be off then.”

John strides into his consulting room, hastily grabs his bag, quickly checks all his patients’ notes have been filed away and leaves without so much as a goodbye to Sarah.

Sarah thinks he is moving on? Forgetting about Sherlock and getting on with his life? John lets out a bitter laugh as he jabs the button on the pedestrian crossing and waits for the lights to change. He could never forget Sherlock; Sherlock has made too much of an impression on John’s life. Sherlock saved John from the colourless world he inhabited after returning from Afghanistan, where he took his gun out every day and sat holding it. Just in case.

John crosses the road and almost turns into the tube station when a travel agents catches his eye. John’s mind flicks back to the image of him and Sherlock relaxing in the sun, sharing wine and kissing. Before he can change his mind, John enters the building and walks straight over to where the holiday brochures are kept along the back wall.

John didn’t think that Sherlock would want to go abroad; he’d be insufferable on the plane. It would be like being cooped up in a confined space with an excitable springer spaniel. John smirks and covers his mouth with his hand. No, it would have to be somewhere in the United Kingdom. Scratch that, it would have to be somewhere within a three-hour travelling distance. That ruled out Scotland and most of Wales and Northern England. John was reaching for a brochure on _Idyllic Kent: The Garden of England_ when one of the travel agents walks over.

“Hello, sir, is there anything I can help you with?”

“I’m just browsing, thanks. Just thinking about going on holiday at this stage, I’d need to check some things with my boyfriend first.”

John freezes. Where the fuck is that coming from?

The travel agent smiles.

“Okay, sir, if you change your mind I’ll just be over at my desk, and I’ll be happy to help you. Feel free to take some brochures with you!”

John mumbles his thanks and continues thumbing through the brochure. Boyfriend? _Boyfriend_? Maybe it is time to make an appointment with Ella. John hastily places the brochure back and walks out of the shop, not daring to look at the travel agent who approached him moments before.

~*~*~

John has found himself with a new post-work routine. He hangs his coat up on the back of the door, dumps his keys on the kitchen table and makes a cup of tea before settling on the sofa with his laptop and Googling Benedict Cumberbatch to catch up on the recent news about the actor. John used to feel a little creepy doing this, but over time it blended into his daily routine and now John can’t let a day pass without trying to find online evidence of Sherlock’s new life.

John notices some buzz around a new film called _Wreckers_ and follows the link to You Tube. He sits completely still as he watches the trailer. It begins with Benedict’s character lying in bed talking to a female character, and John’s heart clenches. Another scene, and Benedict is kissing the woman. John stops, unable to watch any more.

 

John closes his laptop with a trembling hand, and he scrubs his hands over his face. He shouldn’t be torturing himself like this. It’s now nearly two years since Sherlock’s death, and John is living vicariously through an actor he believes is Sherlock Holmes. John feels unhinged. If only Sherlock would give him a sign that it was really him, something John could hold on to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the stupidly long time between updates. Real life got in the way and left me with no time to write. I'm still determined to finish this series even if updates are a little on the sparse side.
> 
> My continued thanks to Grassle.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone has any suggestions or ideas for other films or situations they want me to write in with 'Benedict' and John's response to it, then please let me know.
> 
> The title comes from Nick Dear's adaptation of Frankenstein. The passage is "I'll clothe her in lace and velvet. I'll give her skills and pearls. I will walk in the garden with my fair angelic Eve! I will be Adam, she will be Eve! And all the memory of hell will melt like snow."
> 
> The inspiration for this story came from reading some tags on tumblr. I apologise for I cannot remember who wrote the tags that prompted me to write the ficlet. That ficlet written on tumblr has morphed into this.


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